We don’t let each other change
the paint chips off the aging door.
It’s in a ring around the frame,
but you can’t see it anymore.
There is no light inside the window
you wouldn’t notice from outside.
Pale trees surround the darkened streets,
and new born owls learn to glide.
Giving in to manipulation
setting down their only voice.
Just a mouthpiece for the system
living life without a choice.
We don’t want the heavy handed,
preaching falsehoods with design.
Resisting all the pressing forces,
making promises align.
Teleporting Typewriter 